


Dripping Like A Saturated Sunrise

by Patchouli (lifelesslyndsey)



Series: Brothers Grim [18]
Category: The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: Dry Humping, M/M, Pseudo-Incest, adoptive incest, cross dressing, hand holding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-22
Updated: 2019-06-22
Packaged: 2020-05-16 13:01:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19318720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lifelesslyndsey/pseuds/Patchouli
Summary: He grips the fabric, pulling it taught where it’s loose on his barebones body, till the sharp jut of his hips, of his collarbone, stand in stark relief beneath the gauzy lace and silk. He’d done his makeup heavy; a thick drag of liner above and below, and he’d always liked the way it made him look a little more alive when he was dead inside but tonight...he feels clean.





	Dripping Like A Saturated Sunrise

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys! It's been a minute, I know. had some tragedy in the family happen. My dog died and it was...it was not good. So I was kind of all over the place emotionally while writing this. I hope it evens out. 
> 
> Title's from Colors by Halsey

  


He is high, he is high, he is a little bit high and he can feel the words float up and brush his skin, he can feel every nerve where the silk and lace touch him. The dust on the floorboards, where it bites his soles, and the dust on his skin, all freckles, and moles. He is high he is high he s a little bit high.

 

He’s alive he’s alive he’s a little bit alive.  And he can feel the color blue, where it winds around his ankles, a constant creeping mist braiding tight to frayed edges of his soul. That’s death for you, for Klaus at least - his tether to life.

 

He can see the color white, where it folds across his body, the scrape of the lace leaving his shower-pink skin faintly raw, and alive with little fires.

 

Allison gave it to him.  It might be from her wedding, or maybe a premier or an event. It doesn't matter. It’s sleeveless, floor length, with a ruffled tail, high collar, low back and layers upon layers of pristine white lace. It’s a little loose in the hips, a little loose in the chest, but Klaus likes the way it feels. Not the fabric, although the fine silk is divine. It’s the way it makes him feel.

 

Clean, mostly.  It makes him feel clean.

 

He couldn’t fucking tell you why.

 

So Allison had given it to him, along with a heaping box full of other frilly numbers. But it was this one that had caught his hands, the way it had slithered over his fingers, heavy and liquid. He stands before the mirror, swaying a little to the smooth jazz tunes courtesy of the corner-lot Ghost he’s grown fond off, content to leave be.  

 

He has no desire to be a woman. Being a woman looks _exhausting_. Klaus just likes the way he feels.  He wishes it fit better, but Alison was fashioned to the likeness of a Goddess; Athena or Frigga. Klaus is a skeleton wearing a tatty, hand-me-down housecoat.

 

He grips the fabric, pulling it taught where it’s loose on his barebones body, till the sharp jut of his hips, of his collarbone, stand in stark relief beneath the gauzy lace and silk. He’d done his makeup heavy; a thick drag of liner above and below, and he’d always liked the way it made him look a little more _alive_ when he was dead inside but tonight...he feels clean.

 

It has nothing to do with being sober. Nothing at all. It’s not this house - it certainly fucking isn’t. It might be the people. Five is alive. Luther is...Luther, but with a well of guilt to keep him in check. Allison is a _mom_. Vanya is in therapy, and Klaus saw her smile a few months back and it looked so real, it looked so new.

 

And then, there’s Ben and Diego. They’re different. Klaus _made_ them different.

And maybe - they made him different too.

 

The crisp lace brushes against his bare, smooth legs, and he feels just as raw on the inside, just as fresh and new.  Like someone reached right inside him and cleared the stains from his soul. It’s not Ben - Ben loves him in spite of those stains, loves him as he is, broken, bruised and marked from the inside out.

 

Something flashes past behind him in the mirror, and he turns just in time to watch Diego walk backward past the door frame. He stops and looks. Looks and looks and _looks_ until Klaus thinks he might catch fire from the heat of that curiosity alone. He’s impatient, and when Diego seems content to _just_ look - always so happy to watch, the fucking pervert - Klaus grits his teeth, the fabric still pulled tight in his hands. “Crawled out of your shadows to come watch deviance in fine formalwear, brother mine?”

 

“Wasn’t planning on it, but I’m considering the change of plans.” With a whistle between his teeth, Diego steps into the room, dragging the door closed behind him.  It shuts and locks with such a soul-shattering click, Klaus feels more dirt shake from his soul. He’s not ashamed of this proclovity, he’s not ashamed of any of them - but this one, people seem so ready to disdain. There is no disdain in Diego’s gaze, nothing so cold and Klaus feels the white of the lace bleed right into his skin. He’s shirtless, sweatpants hung low on his hips, and if Klaus had to bet money, he’d say Diego’d just come from Klaus’ bathroom. Diego drags his bottom lip between his teeth and the accidental sensuality scrapes raw over Klaus skin. This. This is what it feels like to be clean. To be the subject of such intensity. _This_.  Pretty, morally upright, do-gooder Diego, looking at Klaus in his borrowed ball gown, with nothing but light in his eyes. “I sure do like your pretty white dress.”

 

Klaus makes a face, can’t stand the squiggles that stain him, fighting to turn the clean white cotton of his insides grey and unsure again. He lets the dress fall from his grip, sagging on his frame. “Fuck off.” Shocking exactly no one, Diego does not fuck off.  Klaus’ more acidic nature is less and less effective on his brothers. He suspects it’s all the dicking.

 

“I’ll say it again for you.” Instead of fucking off, Diego comes up behind Klaus, hooks his chin over Klaus’ shoulder, and grabs his hips, pulling the loose lace tight again. Klaus sucks in a breath when Diego nips at him, teeth as sharp as any blade. “You look good.” He pulls the skirts of the dress up higher, letting the high slit fall up over Klaus' thigh, the length of his pale, hairless leg exposed. “And I _like_ your pretty white dress.”

 

(There was something specifically captivating about the heat of Diego’s gaze as he bottomed out in Ben, the shocked, wide-eyed wonder that Klaus feels crazy desperate for.  They haven’t fucked since the marble pools in the lower levels of the house- Klaus is prepared to change that.)

 

Diego spins him, hand on his hip, and the other tangling their fingers. "Let's dance."

 

And Klaus...Klaus kind of wants too. He feels weird though, standing where he is in a borrowed white dress, caught up in Diego's hands and gaze and heat again. He feels all of twelve years old, in a too-big dress but instead of Dad hauling him out by his hair, knocking him straight off his borrowed heels, it's Diego - saying he looks pretty.

 

"There's no music," he says because _yes_ and _no_ aren't viable options and arguing is reflex.

 

Diego is unconcerned. "That Jazz ghost still playing?" Klaus nods, though a lie does consider itself in his brain, popping and fizzing like a busted bubble before his mouth can form it. "Then we have music. I’ll let you lead." And he scoops an arm around Klaus' waist, hand firm and sure on the small of his back.

 

Klaus allows it. Allows his other hand to be tangled into Diego’s. He listens, catching the faint melody of something soft and breezy.  When he doesn’t move, Diego tugs him along. He’s off a step and out of tempo, and Klaus feels like he’s at fucking prom but---

 

But it’s nice.

 

They’re fucking _dancing_.

 

“It’s not weird?” It’s fucking _weird_ . Most of the shit Klaus wears is weird. He’s always had this sense that he could draw attention away from the fact that he was on the constant cusp of falling apart with brightly colored crop tops and cut-off booty shorts. A highly effective method, if not a little unorthodox, Klaus wore clothes like armor. And every chip off his polish reminded him that it was all a _lie_. Vietnam had taught him that.  Bravado was a lie. But...most the world was, so why did it matter?

 

“So what if it is?” Diego says in return, with a careless shrug. He doesn’t lie to Klaus, doesn’t tell him it’s not weird, totally normal, perfectly fine. He doesn’t lie. He just...doesn’t care. And if morally upright, do-gooder Diego who judges others with extreme ass-hole impunity and holds grudges longer than he can hold his breath under water...if that Diego can look at Klaus and find even one iota of something redeeming...Klaus can let himself believe it. Diego’s moral compass more finely tuned than his own, so perhaps it’s even easier to believe it from his brothers pink, pouting mouth.

 

He spins Klaus, dipping him and Klaus can’t help but panic, fingers gouging faintly into the bare, scarred skin of Diego’s forearms. Diego’s kind of hairy, one of the more hirsute Hargreeves, coming in second place to that of only Luther - as was par of course for him in life. “There are worse things than weird. You could be bad at parallel parking.”

 

“I _am_ bad at parallel parking,” Klaus informs him. “I can’t drive.”

 

“Yeah - that’s fucking weird. You’re in your thirties, man. There’s no reason you shouldn’t know how to drive” He’s smiling as he says it, so Klaus only steps on his fucking foot a little bit. “Is you wearing a dress any weirder than me thinking you look good in it?”

 

“Probably.” They’re fucking _brothers_. It’s weird. “You wouldn’t have liked it if I didn’t wear it. Besides, I’ve found there are only two types of guys into it. The ones who don’t want to be seen with me in public, but want me to call them daddy while wearing thigh high socks, and the ones who want to call my asshole a pussy.”

 

Diego laughs, a faint pink blush stealing across his cheeks and Klaus bookmarks that for later, in the back of his mind. Hmmm. “And which one of those are you into?”

 

“Both.” He pushes up against Diego, pushes them out of step until he’s crowding Diego up against the wall. “Which one are you?”

 

Diego’s lashes flutter closed, so delicate, even as he bared his teeth. “I---I---I---”

 

“Try it on,” Klaus bursts, moving to pin Diego’s left hand above his head. Diego is sturdy - thick, and ropey; Klaus grips him so hard he feels his own palms burn. He can take it. He can _take_ it.  He wants to _hurt_ Diego, just a little bit, wants to kiss every tender bruise he leaves. It’s such a tangible feeling, he’s certain you could reach right into him and pluck it out for all the world to see - this honey-sticky thing inside of him. “Put it on, Gogo. I wanna see you in it.”  With his other hand, he shoves at Diego’s sweatpants, brushing the sweaty palm of his hand roughly over Diego’s twitching cock. “Since you think it’s so pretty.” He gets his hands on Diego’s dick - presumptuous, and rude, but Diego’s already fattening up against his palm. “Put it on for me.”

 

Diego’s other hand comes up and for a second - Klaus thinks he’s going to be shoved away. But no - thick fingers pull so gently at the delicate zipper in the back of the dress, Klaus is almost certain it’s just wishful thinking. But no, Diego’s there, drawing it down and Klaus can feel it in his spine, peeling him apart and leaving him raw and delirious.

 

He wants Diego to open him up like that. He wants Diego to _open him up._

 

He slips it over Klaus' shoulder, nails scraping bare skin.  He waits, silently, lashes lowered until Klaus gets the fucking point and lets go of his wrist, so he can slide the other half down Klaus’ other shoulder.  He has to let go of Diego’s dick too, which his brain understands but his body can’t comprehend, but somehow - the dress becomes a foamy white puddle around his feet.

 

Diego tangles their fingers and Klaus loses his _voice_ .  It shouldn’t be like this with his brother. It shouldn’t feel like this. Klaus knows him. Diego is safe. His brain knows that it shouldn’t curl into every goddamn touch, but his body hasn’t gotten the message. It’s just----he _knows_ Diego. And Diego knows him. And this is a bubble he’s not ready to burst.

 

“Help me put it on.”

 

And it’s just

 

It’s just

 

Klaus can see the change in him. In the tooth-shaped grooves, he’s worn down on Diego’s throat, where deviancy bleeds pomegranate bruises, and the red inside of Diego spills out to tangle in Klaus blue.  What's left is lavender, and just as sweet, just as soothing.

  


He can feel the weight of his own tongue, where it rests, wet in his mouth.  The way the warm, stale air shifts ever so slightly over his skin, dragging iridescent dust through his every fine hair - he can feel it all, in every nerve of his being.

 

He is high he is high he is a little bit high

 

And he wonders very lightly

 

how you fall

in love

 

with your own

brother.

 

He thinks the answer might be in the way the blue and red are bleeding a pale sort of purple, so fine a thing, so pure...Klaus knows this can’t be _real_.

 

So he falls to his knees, and gathers up that fucking dress, holds it open as Diego slips one hairy leg through, and then the other. The delicate lace catches on his leg hairs, snagging and pulling, and the contrast - that first mushroom cloud of swirling milk in your morning coffee, a sudden fall of snow in a sandstorm...the way the water swirls a little cleaner every circle around the drain as he washes the sins from his filthy palms... it looks so _clean_.

 

Klaus has to touch him, touch Diego with all of his everything, as he draws up the dress, of course, he does. Diego shudders, stomach jumping and Klaus ignores his cock all together in favor of sucking the meanest, filthiest hickey known to man on the cut of Diego’s hips. And when he’s sure it will stay, sure it will hurt, sure that everything is real...He drags his open mouth up to his stomach, his chest, his throat, drawing the lace higher, over thick thighs, and thick hips----

 

And he takes a step back. Just a step. Half a step.

 

And there’s Deigo Fucking Hargreeves in a pretty white dress and Klaus----

 

Klaus really needs to know, how you fall in love with your brother.

 

No, he doesn’t care about the taboo, the fucked up core, how this is a product of childhood trauma, how this could be a fucking disorder. He doesn’t care about that - they are what they are, but they are what they are together, all of them. No - he wants to know how he can fall in love with someone he _already loves._

 

Diego’s his brother. Of _course_ Klaus fucking loves him.

 

Klaus loves Diego. Just like he loves Ben.  Klaus’s love for Ben has never wavered, never changed. Even after Ben kissed him, even after that. Klaus _loves_ Ben, so fiercely, it’s a living thing inside of him.

 

Diego’s different.

 

And Klaus just...Klaus doesn’t understand how he can love Ben just as much as Diego, every bit as much - but it’s different.

 

Diego’s different.

 

And he looks so good, against the dark walls.  He looks so good, Klaus can’t bear to touch him, certain it’ll burn him, change him somehow.  His palm _-hello-_ hovers over bare skin, stretched and stained in curling black ink.  The fabric is drawn tight over Diego’sshoulders and when Klaus gives in to the urge to touch him, he slides his fingers beneath the lace, shoving it aside until ah---ah---

 

That fucking _nipple ring._

 

Christ.

 

And Klaus is struck, he is shattered. Because there he is, Diego - in this pretty white dress, sticky fucking hard beneath the lace, and that fucking nipple ring is just mocking Klaus, fucking _mocking_ him.  Diego looks so fucking good. So fucking _clean_ . Klaus can feel himself shaking, but Diego’s just watching. He’s just watching with those big doe eyes of his and Klaus is the King of the Goddamn _World_.

 

He gets to fucking _ruin_ that.

 

“Do you know what you look like, Gogo?” He asks, dragging his mouth over Diego’s, and drowning on the shuddery shake of his own voice. “You look like my _wife_.”

 

When Diego tangles their fingers together this time, Klaus doesn’t lose himself....he sinks to his knees.

 

Diego looks so fucking good...Klaus wants to _worship_ him.

 

He feels slippery, feels sloppy, as he drags his cheek over Diego’s cock, lace catching on his trimmed beard. Diego keeps their fingers tangled against his own hip, even as Klaus uses his other hand to frantically push at the fabric. Diego helps, freehand scrabbling to hold it high against his chest and they’re not speaking no, they’re barely breathing and Klaus is fairly certain he’ll die if he doesn’t---

  


“ _Fuck---Fuck---_ ”

 

Klaus can take him all. All at once, the thick fat head pressing hard at the back of his throat and he wants it to hurt, wants to choke on it, gag on it, all spit and sputter. And there’s Diego’s hand, untangling from his own to slip into his hair, ripping Klaus back and it hurts and Klaus wants to fall right into the pain and never come out. “ _Gogo_.”

 

“If I don’t get too, you don’t get too,” And Klaus has never regretted not letting some fresh little twink gag on his cock more, but he’d told Diego no because he loves Diego and Diego doesn’t know he’s pushing on a bruise, doesn’t know how much Klaus loves it. Diego yanks him to his feet and Klaus cock is raw and angry red, precome spilling sticky where it lays against his stomach and he lets himself be flipped and ushered, flat-back against the wall. Diego fucking---He holds the dress up, gets his dick against Klaus and Klaus thinks---He thinks he might be _crying_. “Fuck me. Fuck me. Fuck me---Diego, shit, just---”

 

Diego’s hands are frantic, a push and pull war inside him. “You’re not - we didn’t---”

 

“I’ve been riding dick almost as long as you’ve been _touching_ yours, it’s fine. Just fucking----” And Diego’s there, shoving Klaus back, holding him up as he kicks Klaus knees farther apart. There’s Diego’, lifting one of Klaus' legs up over his hips, then the other---fuck---the---other---

 

Klaus hand’s slap against the wall, looking for anything, leverage, his sanity and he _lied_ when he said it was fine - it’s a tight fucking fit and yeah, it’s dry - but God----

 

“Easy, easy, go easy,” Diego says, steadying Klaus.  He’s still inside him, the white lace crushed between them and Klaus cock is hard, so fucking hard---

 

Klaus is falling in love.

 

Diego’s balls deep in him sure, balls deep in his brother, but he’s falling in love and he can’t help but wonder, I mean you really have to _wonder----_

 

Would it be too much to ask----

 

That Diego loves him back?

 

And as Diego tangles their fingers together, even as he presses Klaus into the wall---fucking up into him with hard, staccato snaps of his thick hips - Klaus thinks---

 

He fucking thinks----

 

It would really fucking hurt if Diego didn’t love him back.

 

***

 

When he comes, it’s with one hand pinned against the wall, and his teeth locked into the meat of Diego’s thumb, where he’s slipped into Klaus' mouth.  He comes all over the lace, where it’s tangled between them. Diego fucks him through it, pressing hard down on his tongue and Klaus feels his knees go weak as Diego comes too, biting so hard into Klaus' throat like he’ll float away if he doesn’t hold on.

 

He kisses Klaus when he’s done. Just kisses him, their fingers still tangled, his other hand holding Klaus with soft, careful pressure. He presses his forehead to Klaus’s, presses a dry kiss to his cheek and he’s still pressed inside Klaus, soft and stick - Klaus has never done this before.

 

They’re holding _hands_. They’re breathing together, the rise and fall of their chests making space for the other. Klaus is swaddled in soft lace and thick, tanned arms and he feels sticky, he feels like syrup, slow and smooth and sweet. He’d melt into a drippy, slipping puddle if it wasn’t for Diego’s hand, holding his jaw, and Diego’s mouth kissing him softly.

 

Klaus feels compelled to hold him too.  And so, he does, hand gliding up Diego’s exposed chest, slipping beneath the fabric, palms catching across that fucking _ring_ . He lets his palms curve and wander, sliding down the planes of Diego’s body, scars and muscle, and hair.  Diego’s undeniably _masculine_ in form. And he smiles against Klaus' mouth. Like Klaus has done something right.

 

They end up in his bed, the bodice of the dress shoved down to Diego’s hips and Klaus with a pair of leggings hanging half off his left shin. He wakes to Ben tugging it the rest of the way free and easing the dress down the rest of Diego’s legs.

 

Klaus moves back, making room for Ben between them on the bed. He makes room for him on instinct, carving out a space between him and Diego.  Ben’s sleepy and warm, and Diego rolls to his side, arm slipping over his waist, fingers reaching for Klaus. They did this sometimes when they were little. With more clothes, of course. And less hand-holding.

 

(slightly less hand-holding)

 

***

 

The next time he wakes up, Diego’s pressing a kiss to his temple and ruffling Ben’s hair. He’s shower-damp and dressed in leather.   _He’s kissing them goodbye_. Klaus reaches out a sleepy hand to catch Diego’s, hooking their pinkies together. He could say---he could say a lot of things. Be safe. Come home. Don’t go. But none feel right.

 

“Bring home food,” Ben grunts, from where he’s buried in Klaus armpit. The dress is hanging off a hanger on the back of Klaus door, a different kind of ghost “And turn the fucking light off, _shit_.”

 

***

 

He can’t look Diego in the eye. He _can’t_. It’s on his face. Diego will fucking see it. Klaus certainly feels filled up to his eyeballs with something decidedly unbrotherly and unsexual, and he’s not certain there’s room for it in his stretched-thin body, what with the brother-fucking and childhood trauma and PTSD war flashbacks.

 

He’s only fallen in love once before.

 

 _Dave_.

 

Dave is a hole in his heart, that only aches when he suddenly _remembers_. A hole in his heart he pushes at every once in a while, just to make sure it still fucking hurts. The same way you lick at the gap where a tooth has fallen out.

 

But before---

 

 _Before_.

 

Dave was the soft ground after a hard fall.  Dave was that fine line between sobriety and shit-faced drunk.  Dave was warm beer and dusty air. Dave was the dryest Klaus had been since he was a child - not the cleanest, but the _brightest_.

 

Dave smiled like the sun rose, and Klaus had never felt so warm than when he’d found himself in the light of it.

 

Diego doesn’t feel like that. Nothing so poetic.

 

Diego’s the first blinding blight of light searing into his wide pupils as the iron doors of the mausoleum creak open. He’s the press of familiar sheets, cold against his skin, softest thing on Earth after the dirty carved stone.  

Diego’s waking up to sunlight spilling soft grey through filth covered windows, head split wide open on a hangover-headache, mouth dry, eyes red - but _waking up._ Waking up.

 

Dave was a pink and orange sunrise, and slow dancing discos.

 

Dave was _sweet_.

 

Dave was _sweet_ .  Diego’s the hand on your stomach, staunching the blood. He’s _relief_.

 

He can’t look Diego in the eye - but _Ben can see right through him._

 

He drags Klaus to the closet, tucks them both up, backs against the wall.  Sticky lace hangs between them, the bleachy dried-come scent very telling, very loud...but Ben takes his hand anyway, beneath the ruffles. “You okay?”

 

“I love you,” Klaus says, and the words taste odd. They are a thing better more often shown than spoken. “You know?”

 

“‘Course.” Klaus feels Ben shift on the other side of the makeshift curtain.  “That hasn’t really changed, you know. I thought it might.”

 

Realistically, Klaus knows Ben probably worried things would get weird between them, but he’s too stuck on the _that hasn’t really changed_ part. “It hasn’t changed, has it?”

 

“No.” Ben shrugs. “I don’t feel different. You’re my brother. I love you.”

 

“Right. Right.” And it’s true - Klaus feels no different for Ben, and there’s something satisfying that Ben should feel the same. Except. “I think I’m in love with Diego.”

 

There’s an extraterrestrial stillness in the way Ben freezes beside him. “ _Oh_?”

 

There’s no sane way to put into words --- to say, all those brief moments of respite in his shitty life, all those shocking, bone-chilling moments of _relief----_

 

That’s Diego.  That's what Diego feels like. Nothing so warm as sunlight and beer by a campfire. Nothing so quaint as kissing in the back of a bar. Nothing so charming as sepia-cast memories, hazy as a 1970’s peace-loving night. Memories of Dave are crushed velvet against your palms as they drift up firm thighs.

 

Diego’s a sense of home.  A sense that things can be okay, despite (or perhaps in spite of) their childhood. Things are okay.

 

How could Klaus ever say all that to _Ben_?

 

But he doesn’t have too, not really.  Ben pats his knee. “I don’t think he’d mind.”

 

“That sounds about right. I love someone, and they’re _okay_ with it.” Klaus snorts and pushes the dress aside, so he can get his arms around Ben and smush him down on the floor of the closet, right across shoes and fallen shirts. Ben goes under with a squeal, lean limbs flailing. Klaus _licks_ his cheek.

 

Ben’s pushing his hands into Klaus jeans when Klaus feels a weird wave of new nostalgia sweep him away. “No no---” he wriggles until Ben removes is hand, and rolls his hips, palms planted firmly on either side of Ben’s head. “It’s been a minute since we’ve done it like this---”

 

“It’s been like a month, and that’s because I last long enough to get our pants off now,” Ben argues, with frustrated rolls of his narrow hips and Klaus is just so---

 

So---

 

So absurdly _pleased_ , by the way nothing changed at all, and the way he fits between the spread of Ben’s pale thighs.

 

He gets them both off with deep, rolling grinds of his hips, with his toes pressed against the far wall for leverage. There’s something silly, something _goofy_ , about dry humping on the floor of your childhood closet, and that’s before you consider the body you’re dry humping belongs to your brother.  Klaus laughs, unexpected and bright, and it shakes right through him, and Ben laughs too - incredulous, exasperated, horny. “C’mon asshole,” he whines, knocking the heel of his palm into Klaus' shoulder. “Do it right.”

 

Klaus nips at him, not sharply.  No matter how he’s seen Ben shake all over for Diego’s heavy hand - Klaus can’t.  He drags his teeth so lightly, over Ben’s jaw. “Diego’s let you get _mouthy_.”

 

Ben bares his teeth and Klaus can’t stand it. “Diego lets me----”

 

He kisses him, deep and dirty before Ben can finish that sentence and possibly Klaus too.  He could very easily strip them both bare and fuck Ben right here. There’s lube in a box to their left, and Benny --- Benny wouldn’t say no.

 

` Instead, he gets a hand under Ben, so he can drag him up into his lap, cock riding the line of his ass. Ben gasps, hands knocking into the walls, the shoe boxes until his fingers curl into ivory lace. “How hard,” he asks, between particularly hard thrusts, “do you think Diego would come, if when I---when I finally fuck his ass, I call it a pussy?”

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> I miss all your comments and I'm sad. Whats your favorite line from the update?


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